Hurt So Good
by Cpt. Carraghay
Summary: "It is a curious subject of observation and inquiry, whether hatred and love be not the same thing at bottom..." Roger Chillingworth/Arthur Dimmesdale. That is correct.


**Author's Note: ** 'The Scarlet Letter' by Nathaniel Hawthorne is the greatest work of literary and psychological genius ever conceived by man. I am not Nathaniel Hawthorne, therefore I did not write that novel in the year 1850. However, I do use many of his words to further my insight into the situations and minds of his characters, much like one would when writing a scholarly essay. My intention is not to slander his work or to insult any one or any thing; in writing this piece of fan-fiction, I only mean to emphasize and illustrate points which are overwhelmingly evident to me when I continue to read Hawthorne's masterpiece. So, enjoy this story, if you will. But know that most of the material contained within can be found explicitly and implicitly in the original text.

**I.**

**The Interior of a Man**

Not long after Hester Prynne's ignominious scandal, the residents of the Puritan Town could easily perceive a physical frailty in their most beloved Reverend, Mr. Arthur Dimmesdale. They knew not the cause nor the solution, but- by the divine will of Providence, or, as some would believe, the machinations of Satan himself- hope was delivered to them in the form of an elderly Physician. He went by the name Roger Chillingworth, and the far-fetched theories of his arrival were due in part to the fact that no one could trace his personal history. Regardless, most viewed his presence as a cause for celebration; under his watch and with his skill, their Pastor may yet live to see many prayer-filled years to come.

Because the young divine almost violently refused to marry, his closest friends saw fit to thrust him into the learned Doctor's closest proximity. The two lived together in a house overlooking a graveyard where Isaac Johnson's field had once been. Each had his own apartment- Dimmesdale's dusky and filled with religious tomes, and Chillingworth's equipped with a laboratory for his medical concoctions- but the two men were never strangers, and frequently made visits to the other's area of study. This arrangement, the pious Puritans prayed, could only be for their Priest's benefit; the one true man of science in all of the New World would be always at the young divine's side, and constantly working towards his recovery.

Yet the old man was at a loss as to the nature of Mr. Dimmesdale's exact affliction. Though he showed a vast array of symptoms, Chillingworth could not pin-point a single cause which he could assign to any of them. The young minister was indeed frail. He was far too thin from his commitment to fasting; he was incredibly pale, as if he had never in his life left the gloom of his study; he coughed and wheezed and shivered as if it were always winter and he were always with the flu. Yet the most curious of physical afflictions which the Physician could observe was that the Reverend would often- and he knew not the prompt for such behavior- clasp his hand desperately over his heart, with a flush of pain, and then a deathly paleness, in his cheek. If he were to cure this man of his disease, old Roger Chillingworth would have to find for himself its exact cause.

On a fine day in early May, after returning from his early morning Mass, Arthur Dimmesdale sat quietly in his abode with the heavy shades almost closed, so that only a thin beam of light shone through the sadness that was his life. He was situated in a weathered wooden chair- as rigid and confining as his faith, though it supported his slight frame, as his faith supports his inner being- and on his desk lay open a large-print edition of 'The Lore of Rabbis,' one of his favorite texts—not that he read for pleasure, for that would be blasphemy in light of his traditionally Puritan values. No, Mr. Dimmesdale read purely for educational purposes; he once attended University at Oxford, and his duty was to make the true teachings of God known both to himself and to his parishioners. So Arthur Dimmesdale sat in his study and absorbed the ancient wisdom by his lonesome.

After what seemed like moments to the young cleric- for he so thoroughly enjoyed his studies, not in a sinful and indulgent way, but just enough that hours seemed, to the miserable scholar, like mere minutes- he heard a light knocking on the oaken door which separated him from the dangers of social interaction. Startled at first, Dimmesdale jumped a bit in his seat, but soon after welcomed his mysterious visitor to enter. It was old Roger Chillingworth, carrying a basket filled with healing potions and mixtures- which appeared as Satan's darkest magic to the conservative, faithful youth. "Good afternoon, my dear friend. I had been gathering herbs from the shore along which you and I often saunter together-" for it was the couple's custom to take long walks through the settlement whilst discussing matters of philosophy, both scientific and spiritual- "and I believe that I have brewed a fine batch of remedies from those very plants. Would you allow me- though I know your studies keep you busy- to converse with you?"

Arthur sat up straight in his uncomfortable chair and answered his companion's request with a gesture for him to shut the door and take his seat across from his own desk. The Minister was a man of few words, unless their purpose was to relay some religious message to his listener. The old doctor sat down and set his basket on a small side-table- on which was also a mirror, into which Dimmesdale daily glanced, and each day beheld the depth of sorrow in his own visage.

"Well, as you know, I've no idea what sort of disease haunts your every moment, my goodly pastor. It is a wonder how two men can live together for so long a time, and yet not know each other intimately enough to deduce such a fact." On the word 'intimate,' the elder gentleman's eyes flashed behind his spectacles, and his neck-beard rose with the slight smile that danced across his lips. Roger Chillingworth was quite a sight to behold. Though grizzled with age, his features always retained a certain liveliness, as if some magical force were motivating his body to maintain its vigor. His garb was unlike any that Dimmesdale had seen, for it consisted of a blend between the civilized New Englander's fashion he had come to know, and that of the savage Indians whom he and his Brothers hoped to convert. For such an old man, Roger Chillingworth looked capable of any task to which he applied his vast skill and knowledge.

Yet the young divine was taken aback by his bold statement, and his large, deep, brown, melancholy eyes widened and then contracted. "Rog- Mr. Chillingworth- dost thou imply that I have been keeping secrets? You know that my faith would never permit me to lie, and that my chosen profession makes it impossible that I would have sinned ever before in my life. Unless, as my feeble existence proves, the Almighty judges even the most faithful, and even my innocence dooms me to a life of suffering."

"Of course," began the Doctor, "I do not assume any sort of sinful secret-life on the part of my most trusted divine;" for Chillingworth had chosen even before their partnership for Dimmesdale to be his personal Pastor. "I simply mean to say that, perhaps I have not explored every facet of my dear patient's being, and therefore cannot target the source of his affliction. I know your physical symptoms well, and I feel that our time spent together has left me well-acquainted with your thoughts and aspirations as well. But your disease is a peculiar one, and I believe that a different kind of knowledge will be necessary in order for my work to be a success."

"I know not of what you speak, Mr. Chillingworth. You know that I am a sick man and that my ceaseless devotion to God further weakens my already shattered frame. You have done all that a man of your profession can do, for only my God can know me in the intimate fashion towards which you hint." For some reason, Arthur Dimmesdale grew more agitated as he spoke these words. It was another peculiarity of his behavior that he rarely looked at any one or any thing directly, but when he held this interview with old Roger Chillingworth, he seemed to avert his gaze completely from his companion as if his mere image aroused unwanted sensations in the despondent man. He focused his attention instead on the single beam of light radiating from the outside world.

Chillingworth knew he had come closer to his objective. He stood up from his chair, his crooked shoulder casting a ghastly shadow on the already darkened floorboards. "Arthur- if I may refer to my housemate by his Christian name- I do not mean to frighten you." He worked his way slowly around the Minister's desk and behind his own seat. "I would not want to make you any more sick and uncomfortable than I know you already are. My aim is to heal you, you will recall. I am only suggesting that a more… _detailed_ inspection of your physical and spiritual state may be essential to my work." He was standing at his subject's back at this point, and his wiry hands gripped the back of his wooden chair. He could hear Dimmesdale shudder as he stood there.

With an attempt at self-control the young priest spoke to the man he could not currently see. "There are some facts, Mr. Chillingworth, which must be left undisclosed- except to the eyes of God, and on that Great Judgement Day, when all secrets shall be revealed. Not that I have any secrets, as I have already mentioned. But the details of one man's anatomy are not meant to be known to another man- not even his Physician." He could feel Roger's hands move from his seat-back to his shoulders even as he spoke. "As for my spiritual health, I believe you know that I am-" his prospective statement was interrupted by a small yelp when he felt the hands move from his shoulders to his chest, to grope underneath his white ministerial band. He quickly clasped his hand to his heart, grabbing the older man's in the process.

Roger Chillingworth was no fool. He knew he had struck a sensitive chord in his patient's heart; but, faking ignorance, he took the Minister's actions as a signal to continue his own. He drew one hand out from underneath Arthur's and used both to clasp his cold hand in his own. He bent closer to the young man's position, letting the scruff of his beard trouble his pale cheek on the way down. He felt the Minister's heartbeat accelerate under his fingers and saw his lips quiver in helpless terror as he turned his face away from the gaze of his Physician. Without a word more, Chillingworth removed his hands from Dimmesdale's, used them to grab at his cheeks, turned his head to face himself, and kissed him.

Arthur Dimmesdale was shocked. For the duration of this kiss, a thousand expressions of pain and guilt and suffering and remorse played upon his face like sunshine dancing on the surface of a sad brook running through a forest. The poor young man had, for the most part, made it his mission to remain pure in all areas of life. As previously mentioned, he kept a rigorous check over his consumption of food, he did nothing for his own pleasure- given that song, dance, and games were almost wholly outlawed in a settlement such as this- and most of all, he avoided all forms of physical contact with other human beings. In order for his spirit to rise above the grossness of his earthly form, he theorized, he would not give in to any temptations of the earthly sort. So being kissed by another man was more than the tortured man of God could bear.

After what seemed like an eternity, the old man released him from his lips' embrace. Arthur gasped for breath and frantically clutched his own chest, then quickly buried his face beneath his long, dull-brown hair and in-between the pages of his religious tome. He sobbed aloud. "Roger… Roger Chillingworth, why do you torture me so? You are my Physician, and I your Pastor, and both of us God-fearing men, so why… _why_ doth…" The end of his sentence was amongst cries of anguish and despair.

"Relax, my good friend. As I told you, this sort of intercourse could only be beneficial to your health. Once I can truly know you- every part of you- only then can I cure what ails you." Roger Chillingworth was now standing at the minister's side, with one hand resting on his desk and the other petting his poor friend's head.

Arthur rejected the kind old man's advances and turned his eyes, bright with tears and passion, to stare at his physician directly. "Then leave me to my miserable existence! Leave me to my God- the one Physician of the Soul! He, if it stand with his good pleasure, can cure; or he can kill! He is the only man to whom I will reveal all of myself; not to you, or to any other! Who art thou, that meddles in this matter- that dares thrust himself between the sufferer and his God?" He stood up from his seat and attempted to exit his dwelling, but before he could take a step towards the portal the Physician's hand- like the devil's own claws- was fast around his wrist. He cried out in pain. The sickly young man would have resisted his elder's grasp, but, truth be told, he only would have injured himself. So he let Roger Chillingworth drag him backwards and into his arms.

The sinister old Chillingworth knew that he now had his desired object. He knew that the Minister was too weak in body and in spirit to resist the fate that to both of them now seemed unavoidable. He saw Mr. Dimmesdale grow pale as he grabbed at his own heart, as if trying to claw it out. Roger Chillingworth, grinning like a fiend, wound his hands around the Minister's slight frame to touch his mid-back, and pulled him closer- too close for Dimmesdale's taste, for their lips touched yet again! A light moan escape from his Patient's blessed lips as his wicked tongue slid its way inside. Perhaps feeling more at ease now- or rather, more helpless- the Minister released his clutch over his own heart and instead wrapped his arms about his companion's shoulders, so that the two men appeared now more like a married woman and man than professional associates. The young Divine showed no signs that he was enjoying this embrace, but neither did he resist it; perhaps from the futility, or perhaps for another, unspoken reason.

They persisted in this fashion for a good time, each slowly moving his hands about the other's contour. They had slowly made their way back to the desk near the window, and when Arthur's backside touched up against the wood, his elder grabbed him by the rear and lifted him to perch atop it. "Roger, wait!" Breaking off the lengthened kiss and gasping for breath, Arthur reached behind him and grabbed the tome which he had been previously studying. "It would be inappropriate to besmirch 'The Lore of Rabbis' with our sinful actions." He placed it carefully on the chair which he himself had occupied. What an unfortunate man was this Minister, who could, in one moment, not only commit an act which all his life's experience forbids, but also have the sensitivity of conscience to deeply regret it!

Roger Chillingworth at once detected this penitent quality in his friend. He knew what deep guilt and suffering this momentary lapse in judgement would later inflict upon the religious youth, and- the devil that he was!- his intentions were to draw these exact feelings into the light. If Mr. Dimmesdale could dispose of a life's worth of stern, rigid, principled purity so easily now, then who is to say that a similar passion- whether of fear, hatred, or something _else- _could drive him, or could have driven him, to give in to similar temptations in the future, or at some point in his past? As with one passion, so with another! His Physician was bent on discovering that, for all of his goodness and piety, the Reverend Arthur Dimmesdale must possess some hedonistic tendencies that occasionally allow his passion to master his reason, and his guilt!

Yet Roger Chillingworth knew that the young Minister would never admit to his consent in this matter. He would submit to the will of his experienced older friend, and would not physically resist for reasons previously mentioned- but he would never affirm his dark desires, or initiate the interaction of his own free will. But that was no matter; the Physician now had all the consent that he needed. He wanted to force the weakened man onto his back and absolutely ravage him; he wanted to corrupt his body so completely that his spirit would soon undergo the same debilitating transformation; he wanted to cause the most intense suffering in this powerless Priest, whom he now suspected and would soon confirm to be his most hated enemy.

However, as a professional doctor seeking mainly to advance his own knowledge of the human frame, he did _not _wish to murder his patient. As malignant as his inmost intentions may be, Roger Chillingworth was no killer. So when he laid the Minister down on his desk, he did so gently as to avoid breaking his delicate body. Arthur's legs dangled off the edge, and his Physician lifted up his constricting black robes to reveal only another layer of black trousers underneath; Puritan clothing was clearly not designed with this purpose in mind, and especially not the Puritan Minister's clothing. He unfastened Dimmesdale's belt and tugged his pants down and off, leaving the most desirable parts of the Minister's body almost entirely exposed. He began to run his hands up the frigid and pale stomach to grope under his shirt, but his actions were interrupted by a tremulous shriek of "stop!" from the throat of the previously passive Priest.

"My dear, religious friend- I do not understand your hesitation here. You have already implied through your lack of protest that I may use your body as I see fit. Why, then, can I not simply caress your skin? There would be more pleasure in it for you than for myself."

"Because, Roger… because I am underserving of your ministrations. You have already given me enough, by prolonging my feeble existence to this day. I would prefer that you take your pleasures as payment, and as for myself, I would prefer not to be too… _indulgent." _Mr. Dimmesdale was exasperated as he spoke, and he once again clasped his hands over his nearly exposed heart. What was he trying to hide or protect, in dismissing his own desires so easily? Or, perhaps, there was a method of pleasing the Minister despite himself- one which Roger Chillingworth was more suited to perform. He could play upon him as he chose. Would he arouse him with a throb of agony? Would he startle him with sudden fear? The trust with which the unfortunate Cleric now regarded his elderly friend would prove to be his downfall, or perhaps, that which awakened the most undesirable temptations in his miserable heart!

Taking all that he could deduce from Dimmesdale's demeanor as a cue to carry on, Roger Chillingworth undid his own restricting garments and cast them on the floor beside him. Dimmesdale raised his head from its place on his desk and looked in front of him while Chillingworth did this; he did not look for long, for he did not wish his friend to know that he was in awe at what he saw. The Minister had not much experience with the human anatomy of either gender- understandably so, due to his dedication to a priestly celibacy. He only had himself to compare the old man to, and compared to himself- compared to anyone, he imagined- Roger Chillingworth was certainly well-endowed. His currently limp member, which hung ominously before his eyes for that split second, was large, wrinkled with ripe old age, and surrounded by a thin shade of grey hairs. He wondered how many others had seen the mysterious Physician so intimately, and how many others- women _or_ men- had experienced what he knew he was about to.

"Now, as I've said, my intention is not to hurt you." Roger Chillingworth said this as he walked halfway across the room, to the place where he had deposited his basket of herbs and potions when he first arrived. He retrieved one of the bottles of nebulously–colored liquid and brought it to where Dimmesdale lay. So, the clever Physician had anticipated this outcome from the start! He looked directly into his Minister's eyes and asked, "have you done this before? I merely ask this from a medical perspective; I don't want to be too rough on you if not."

At first Dimmesdale did not respond in words, but his pale cheeks turned a deep shade of scarlet, and his eyes darted nervously across the room. Of course, the one guilty secret of his life could be revealed at this very moment, if only he had the courage to confide in another living soul! Had he one friend- or were it his worst enemy!- to whom, when sickened with the praises of all other men- his parishioners, his fellow servants of God, and all the townsfolk-, he could daily betake himself, and be known as the vilest of all sinners- even thus much of truth would save him! But he replied quietly, "no, I have not," and kept his dark secret to fester alone and unknown in his very soul.

Without a word more, Chillingworth removed the final layer of undergarment which stood between himself and the Minister's dim interior. He was alarmed to find that the minutes they had spent conversing had only served to excite his young friend with anticipation, for his modestly-sized- to be somewhat generous in description- manhood stood erect before him. What a sensitive soul was Arthur Dimmesdale, that their mere verbal intercourse affected him so! As his wise Physician surmised, wherever there is a heart and an intellect, the qualities of the physical frame are tinged with the peculiarities of these. So the Minister's length, like his spirit, was both pathetic and easily-moved.

Roger Chillingworth was ready to begin. He undid the cork and poured some of the magical liquid onto his thin and crooked fingertips, and- without further hesitation- plunged them inside Dimmesdale's now exposed rear entrance. At the first cold touch, the conscience-stricken-cleric gasped, and then closed his hand over his mouth while his brow contorted itself in disgrace and Remorse. Roger was not deterred by these signals. He delved deeper inside, probing every thing with a cautious touch, like a treasure-seeker in a dark cavern. He moved his digits in and out, up and down, and contorted them in every possible way until the whole of his patient's inner passage was open to him. Using his best knowledge of the human frame, he found the Minister's most sensitive spot, and fretted it continually with the touch of his burning finger. This last action caused Mr. Dimmesdale to shudder and arch his back in pain or pleasure- for he knew not which sensation was which anymore.

After Arthur's foul organ-pipe was sufficiently explored, the Physician withdrew his fingers and braced himself for the next line of attack. He leaned forward a bit, his crooked shoulder now appearing more sinister than ever as he hovered over his helpless patient. Dimmesdale tried to avert his eyes from the man who would soon invade him in ways he could not bear to imagine, but his doctor would not let him. He gripped the Minister's chin in his hand- the clean hand- and drew him closer for one last kiss. He would not let his friend ignore this act; he would not let him forget it; he would make sure that the guilt of it seared his very soul and burned for evermore. He knew he had his attention when the tears began to well up inside of poor Mr. Dimmesdale's sullen eyes, and he wiped them away and kissed him again.

Chillingworth straightened himself again. Gripping his cock in his own hands, he pressed the head against Dimmesdale's entrance- like a sexton preparing to delve into a grave, possibly in quest of a jewel that had been buried on the dead man's bosom, but likely to find nothing save mortality and corruption. Alas for his own soul, if these were what he sought! With a sigh he plunged himself inside. Dimmesdale let out a choking noise, as if he were being shot through the heart by a Red Man's arrow; and would it not be better for the unfortunate Reverend if he were? After this initial shock his body relaxed a bit, and he lay his back down on the rough wooden desk and breathed heavily, his hand closed tight over his heart.

It had begun, and the two men were now too close ever to look back. Roger began to thrust slowly and sensuously. It was a tight fit for him- understandably so, for he imagined his partner had not much experience in this field. While he did wish to exact his revenge to its full extent on Arthur's spirit, he did not wish to break his fragile body in this first intercourse; for, if he was to be successful to-day, there would surely me more to come. But the gentleness with which his kindly Physician regarded him was worse than torture to the penitent Reverend. If he were going to sin- and with another man, no less- he needed to pay the price. He did not deserve this pleasure- the vile sinner that he, but not another soul, knew that he was! He opened his lips lightly and panted: "harder, Roger. Make it _hurt."_

This was the cue to old Roger Chillingworth that he had won his most desired object. The Minister was giving him full permission to abuse him as he, his worst enemy, saw fit. The poor fool! Unbeknownst to Arthur Dimmesdale- whose eyes were clenched shut in pure terror- a ghastly smile worked its way across the old man's visage. Had a man seen old Roger Chillingworth, at that moment of his ecstasy, he would have had no need to ask how Satan comports himself, when a precious human soul is lost to heaven, and won into his kingdom. But unlike the Black Man, he could derive his own physical pleasures from this new victim! And please himself he did!

He wrapped his hands about the Minister's slim legs and dug his fingers into the flesh, causing the young man to wince and shift in discomfort. Using this new leverage, Chillingworth now rammed his pelvis forward with force. He stopped for a moment after this first attack to listen for any signs of intense suffering in his patient, but he found his suspicions unfounded. Dimmesdale was taking it like a man- for now, he thought to himself. For how long could this pathetic soul endure the pains, both physical and spiritual, for which his sins prepared him? Chillingworth began to move roughly now inside the tight space of Dimmmesdale's inner passage, and he continued to smile devilishly as he did so. After a good few minutes of this relentless pounding the priest released a groan of apparent displeasure. And yet, his body did not echo the sentiment which his despondent soul expressed. His very erect member began to drip, and he must have realized this, for he frantically clutched at it with the hand not covering his heart to contain the shameful liquid. But Chillingworth too saw these signs of physical stimulation, and he thrust himself inside his patient with extra force in light of this new development. So, Arthur Dimmesdale was a man most pleased by pain? His kind Physician would remember that, when administering the 'cure' for his condition!

With a heavy grunting noise, Roger Chillingworth continued his brutal assault on the frail cleric, clawing at his pale flesh all the while. Dimmesdale, out of reflex, began to move as well in time with this action. He knew this was a sin- taking an active role in his own pleasure- but his body would not permit him to lie passive this time. At once, his spirit caved into the sensation of this earthly pleasure, and with a stuttered moan he released his holy seed, which clung to his stomach and his robes after being expelled from his feeble shaft. Chillingworth was surprised that the Minister achieved this climax before he did- perhaps his youth and inexperience could explain that. Regardless, the Physician continued to pound and thrust until he too reached that level of satisfaction, and the warmth of it filled Arthur Dimmesdale and elicited the same expression of his which had come to be an involuntary habit- that he put his hand over his heart, with first a flush and then a paleness, indicative of pain.

His work concluded for the time being, old Roger Chillingworth withdrew from his patient's passage and clothed himself, grinning with utmost fulfillment all the while. His partner was still splayed across his desk, his hand over his heart, covered in both of their fluids, and panting heavily. Out of his concord of paternal and reverential love for the young pastor, and despite the lingering, tense atmosphere, Roger began to speak. "My good Reverend… would you allow me to assist you in cleaning yourself? Changing to a new set of priestly robes, perhaps? Can I fetch you something to eat, or perhaps some water?"

After a long sigh, and placing his arm over his eyes to shield himself from the light of day, Dimmesdale replied, "No, my kind Physician. Your help will not be necessary. I must return to my studies promptly… and…" There was no need for him to say more, for Roger knew that his young friend- despite allowing him into his closest intimacy- was nonetheless uncomfortable with the idea of another man washing or dressing him, let alone treating his unworthy self to a meal.

"Then I will take my leave for now. Do stop by if you wish to observe the process of transforming herbs into healing medicines." Chillingworth gathered his belongings and left the room, lingering for a moment outside the door to bask in the glory of his day's work. It was a miracle he had done this, for not a moment later he heard a loud thud from inside. When he returned from whence he came, he found that the Reverend had fallen flat on his face in his pathetic attempt to stand. The good Physician scurried over to his weakened companion who, this time, did not resist his assistance. He hefted the younger man up and carried him to his bed, laying him down again in his sin-stained clothing.

After a lengthy lecture from his Physician, Arthur Dimmesdale had decided against any further study. The events of the past hours had left him exhausted and- disappointingly so- unable to carry out his duties as a priest for the rest of the evening. Confident now that his patient was safe, Roger Chillingworth bid him sleep well with a soft kiss on the forehead, which was hot with fever and yet cold with the threat of imminent Death. The Minister was asleep almost instantly- which was remarkable, for he was one of those persons whose sleep, ordinarily, is as light, as fitful, and as easily scared away, as a small bird hopping on a twig.

Roger Chillingworth was most content with this outcome. He had gained Arthur Dimmesdale's trust. He had coaxed the tortured soul into viewing him as a source of healing, both physical and spiritual. He had become the guilty man's instrument of penance for his past crimes, and a constant symbol of penitence for a new one, and for those yet to be committed. He had carved a place for himself in the Reverend's intimacy which- like the breach which guilt has once made into the human soul- would never, in this mortal state, be repaired. It may be watched and guarded; so that the enemy shall not force his way again into the citadel, and might even, in his subsequent assaults, select some other avenue, in preference to that where he had formerly succeeded. But there is still the ruined wall, and, near it, the stealthy tread of the foe that would win over again his unforgotten triumph.

And Dimmesdale had been foolish enough to neglect the fundamental wisdom which his years, few though they may be, ought to have impressed upon him: a man burdened with a secret should especially avoid the intimacy of his physician.


End file.
